Slicky Boys Read Online Free PDF Page B

time you got here,” the First Sergeant said.
    Ernie ignored him, walked over to the coffeemaker, and poured himself a cup. He hunched over the little counter while he twisted open the sugar jar, scraped some granules off the bottom, and shook a smattering of flakes into his cup. He peered into the jar, trying to loosen the remaining crust.
    “Why don’t you invest in some more sugar, Top, and a little cream? You can’t keep drinking this stuff straight. Too toxic. Rot your gut.”
    The First Sergeant stood behind his desk, his fingertips resting lightly on the immaculately white blotter, glaring at Ernie. He wasn’t a tall man but he was husky and if it wasn’t for a potbelly that was just beginning to grow, he would’ve appeared muscular. Closely cropped streaks of white hair bookended the sides of his gray crew cut.
    Blood rose through his thick neck and settled in slack jowls.
    “Bascom,” he said, “are you through dicking around with that coffee?”
    “Just about.”
    Ernie clinked his spoon inside the metal cup, slurped on the hot java, and topped it off with just a dash more coffee. Like a potentate about to attend a ceremony, he paraded over to his chair, set his cup down on the cigarette-scarred table, and took his seat.
    The First Sergeant leaned over his desk and looked at us both. His voice came out low and menacing.
    “Where were you two last night when you were supposed to be on call?”
    Ernie sipped on his coffee. I usually let him handle the First Sergeant. He had a knack for it.
    “Eating chow,” he said.
    “At eleven-thirty at night?”
    “Sort of a Continental thing with us. We like to eat late.”
    The First Sergeant looked at me. I didn’t move.
    “You were out boozing it up,” he said, “and running the ville. And when I tried to get in touch with you, you were nowhere to be found.”
    “We left a number,” Ernie said.
    The crisp blotter crinkled under the First Sergeant’s fingers. “A number where nobody speaks English!”
    “Mama-san was out,” Ernie said. “Her daughter’s a sharp cookie, though.”
    “But she doesn’t speak English!”
    Ernie’s eyes widened. “Of course not, Top. She’s Korean.”
    “I know that, goddamn it, but when I have to make a call to get ahold of you guys and when I finally get through, I expect to be able to speak something other than that kimchi-eating gibberish.”
    “When in Rome,” Ernie said, “and all that shit.”
    The First Sergeant took a deep breath. He seemed to be mulling over something, some course of action. He leaned forward.
    “All right, you two. From here on out, whenever you’re on call I expect you to be in the barracks. Not out in the ville, not in some soju house drinking rice wine, but in the barracks. And you’ll check in with the Charge of Quarters every hour unless you’re actually in your goddamned room asleep. You got that?”
    Ernie sipped on his coffee, looked at the First Sergeant, and nodded.
    “No sweat, Top.”
    The First Sergeant looked at me. I nodded.
    He’d forget about this latest decree in a month or two and besides, we were only on call every sixth day and we could pay the CQ to call us at the Nurse’s hooch if we had to. Not a problem.
    “All right,” the First Sergeant said. “Now that we have that out of the way. What’d you find out on this Whit-comb case?”
    Ernie didn’t move, but something in his manner made it obvious that he was through talking. The technical side of things was my responsibility. Ernie was strictly a people person.
    “What we found out was in my report,” I said.
    The First Sergeant stared, waiting. I continued.
    “This guy, Lance Corporal Cecil Whitcomb, a member of the British contingent of the United Nations Honor Guard, was stabbed to death in the Namdaemun district of Seoul at some time between ten and eleven o’clock last night.”
    “How did they fix the time of death?”
    “The testimony of local residents. There was quite a bit of traffic